Three Words, Eight Letters
by Princess Sammi
Summary: *Now a three-shot* Set post-Carried Away/The Dragon's Hoard - Established HB/Drill.* Following Constance's accident on the boat, Imogen realises how close she came to losing her, and decides to tell the witch those all-important words. Part three now up. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own 'The Worst Witch'. **

**A/N: Hi, folks. This is the first part of a little two-shot that I have been working on, while trying to shift my writer's block for everything else, lol. I will upload for now but I may do some revising at a later date. The second part shouldn't take overly long to materialise... *in theory* **

**Hope you enjoy :)**

* * *

**Three Words, Eight Letters**

**Chapter One**

Fresh tears pricked at her bloodshot eyes as she took in the sight of her beautiful girlfriend, who was in a rare slumber, and realised just how truly close she had come to losing her. Despite her earlier attempts to block it out, it remained at the forefront of her mind. A sharp pain searing through her heart at the mere thought of what could have been – and what all-too nearly was.

It was a truth that was now shining furiously back at her, much like the deep purple bruising on the witch's forehead.

"Imogen," her lover's voice suddenly broke through the silence.

She jumped guiltily, rather resembling a small child, one caught with their hand in the sweetie jar before dinnertime. In hindsight, she felt slightly foolish for even thinking that the sorceress would not know she was there. There was a definite probability of truth in the rumours of the witch possessing a sixth sense.

She was able to make out the outline of the potions mistress, who was nonchalantly trying to shield her still sensitive senses from the lights of the corridor. Though the lights were not overly bright, to the witch, they might as well have been laser beams: the contrast between her chamber and the corridor, quite literally being night and day.

"Stop watching me when I am trying to sleep; you know how it creeps me out." Constance muttered the last part of her sentence into her pillow, rather than directing it to the gym-mistress, almost as if she was ashamed of admitting to such a weakness.

"Sorry, darling. How are you feeling?"

Not having the energy to chastise Imogen over her use of pet names, she chose to ignore the term of endearment…and the way her heart had flipped a little as the non-witch had said it.

"I'm fine." She stated simply.

Her tone did not even try to hide the inconvenience that resting was causing her, making her sound more like a fussy two-year old, rather than the grown woman she was.

* * *

As soon as Form Two had landed in the school courtyard, evidently still in high spirits from their week away at Rowan Webb's Riverside Retreat, Amelia had practically ordered a somewhat unamused Constance onto bed rest. Still haunted by the images of finding her deputy headmistress; the woman who was akin to her daughter, unconscious on a little boat, which was nearly swept over the waterfalls, the worry and concern in the tones of the elderly witch had been all too clear.

Unsurprisingly, a horrified Constance had immediately refused, citing that she had important things to attend to, and that – for the 48th time – she was perfectly fine. She had relented, eventually, but only after Miss Cackle had issued her with an ultimatum: she either took two days off over the weekend, before returning to teaching on Monday or her headmistress was signing her off as sick for the entire week - and possibly the week thereafter, *just* to make sure. Sensing that she was beaten, Miss Hardbroom had reluctantly agreed, silently congratulating a worthy opponent.

Oh yes, Amelia Cackle could be quite the schemer when she had to be.

* * *

Although she would never admit it - and would staunchly deny it if anyone asked -, a small part of Constance was rather glad of the rest.

Her head was still thumping and her vision remained sporadically jumpy.

The headache potion she had taken before the flight home earlier in the morning had done little to alleviate her suffering and it had taken her every ounce of willpower she possessed just to concentrate on flying her broomstick in a straight line – she did not plan on doing a Mildred Hubble and crash-landing amongst the bushes and the brambles.

"For goodness sake, Imogen! Either come in or don't! Just please stop hovering around my chamber like some demented fly…and close the door."

Looking rather sheepish, Imogen Drill stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind her, while Constance pushed herself up into a sitting position, lighting the candle on her bedside table with a flick of her wrist. A soft glow filled the room but not so bright, that it would burn her through her eyes and make her already aching cranium want to split in two.

The candlelight was nice…

... Romantic, even.

* * *

Running her fingers through Constance's long dark hair, occasionally twisting tendrils around her fingers, Imogen marvelled, as she always did, at the luscious locks the deputy's tight bun unleashed; the loose curls tumbling down her back like an inky waterfall.

The witch was gorgeous, yet she could not see it. The soft glow of light coming from the candle only emphasised her already striking features: her long dark hair, her porcelain skin, her high and well-defined cheekbones, and that was before you even took the brains, the grace and the magical power into account. Imogen was certain that, had she wanted, Constance could have had any man (or woman), so why had she chosen her…?

A non-witch.

* * *

Constance had instinctively tensed up, still getting used to the invasion of what she termed her "personal space", but it had taken no time at all for her to relax under Imogen's familiar and gentle touch. Allowing herself to lean back, resting her head on Imogen's chest, she let the blonde continue to play with her hair, surprised herself at how natural it felt. Her long eyelashes fluttered closed and her breathing came slow and steady – she was not asleep; she was content.

In fact, dare she say, she was happy.

* * *

A low hiss of pain snapped Imogen from her reverie, realising instantly that while she had been playing with the witch's hair, she had accidentally brushed the sensitive sore spot on Constance's head.

"Shit! Sorry, Con-"

"It's fine."

Taking one of the pale hands in her own, Imogen intertwined their fingers, before bringing their joined hands up to her lips and placing a small kiss on the back of the brunette's hand.

"My poorly Constance," she whispered softly, "I-I don't know what would h-h-have happened if Mildred hadn't of been there."

"Well, given that I had absolutely no awareness of what was going on, let alone any way of stopping it, I would most likely have died, Imogen."

There was no fear in her voice, just a blunt tone of acceptance.

What had been a calm and serene bliss, suddenly grew to an awkward silence between the two lovers. It rather scared Imogen how Constance seemed to have no fear of her own mortality.

Despite her love of the great outdoors, of extreme sports and adventure holidays, despite the exhilaration and thrills she got from snowboarding, rock-climbing and white-water-rafting, Imogen Drill was still terrified of death. For Constance, however, this was not the case.

It was true.

Constance Hardbroom did not fear death.

How could she fear something that she had spent so much of her youth years praying for?

* * *

_**Curled up in the furthest corner of the room, a little girl wrapped her arms further around her delicate frame, desperately trying to snatch even an ounce of heat from the seemingly frozen air; her efforts proving futile as the ice-cold temperature seeped further into her already chilled bones.**_

_**Her terrified eyes glanced around the room, almost as though she was hoping to find a saviour in the surrounding darkness, but there was no prince charming and there was no knight in shining armour, just an endless abyss of black.**_

_**Silence.**_

_**She did not know how long she had been in here. It could have been days or weeks, hell, it could have been mere minutes; there was simply no way of knowing, all sense of time was lost in her small and suffocating cell. She wondered if Heckitty was ever coming back for her or whether she was going to leave her to rot, condemning her for all eternity in a darkened hellhole.**_

_**Biting down hard on her lip, she stifled a scream as a sharp and sudden pain rippled through her aching ribs, forcing her to double over in agony as she clutched fruitlessly at them, praying to a god she did not believe in that the pain would stop, knowing that her prayers would go unanswered; her fate was long sealed. **_

_**The familiar click of heels in the corridor outside sent an icy fear crashing through her veins; the footsteps deliberately slow as they toyed with her, drawing out the torture that awaited her. She curled further into herself as the key was placed in the lock, she knew she was expected to be standing but her mind was no longer thinking straight, frightened utterances falling from her cracked lips as she begged for release from a cruel world and a merciless monster…**_

* * *

Sensing the look on her girlfriend's face, Constance immediately felt a pang of guilt pierce her heart - and heart that she knew many believed her not to have. She was all too aware of her 'Ice Queen' nickname amongst the rest of the school; the one they believed she knew nothing about. She knew though.

She knew…

As much as she had tried to convince herself that it did not bother her, it did. The phrase touched a raw nerve in the witch, who was - despite outer appearances - plagued with insecurities, self-doubt and was, quite honestly, lost. In fact, she had been for a very long time, her fractured mind slowly splitting into pieces as she held it together through, what was, essentially, the performance of a lifetime.

It was better they thought her cold rather than let them see the truth; she could not bear to be treated so fragile.

"Besides," she continued on, repositioning herself slightly so that she was now facing Imogen and masking the crack in her voice with a well-executed precision. "Let us not forget that if Mildred Hubble hadn't of disobeyed a _direct order_, then I would not have needed…rescuing in the first place!"

Despite the firmness that was present in her tone, her eyes told a very different story. If the gym mistress wasn't mistaken, there seemed to be guilt swimming in the deep brown of her irises.

"Are you going to punish her?" she asked tentatively, sensing that something was troubling the older woman but knowing she could not push her to disclose outright.

Constance simply sighed in response, breaking eye contact with the blonde and staring down at the bedcovers as though they were one of the great interest points of the world.

While she knew that Mildred's actions had indeed caused her accident (further aided by Ethel and Drusilla's downright dangerous antics), it had in fact been _her own_ mistrust and suspicions of the worst witch, which had caused her to go and investigate the boat. She had seen enough of the girl's strange behaviour (stranger than normal!) to know that something was awry, her teacher senses kicking in instantly as she resolved to find out the truth.

Furthermore, taking Tabby away from Mildred had been **her** idea…

…and she could not help the guilt that consumed her.

It broke the non-witch's heart to see the apparent inner struggle that the sorceress was battling.

"It wasn't your fault."

The words spoken were quiet, so quiet they barely graced the air. It was almost as if she was scared of speaking out of turn.

Constance said nothing in reply, but still refused to meet the eyes of the PE teacher. A heavy silence filled the air, broken only by the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. Unsure whether or not she had been heard, Imogen made the decision to try again.

Gingerly, she reached under the older woman's chin, lifting it up until their eyes met. The witch's brown eyes swimming with unshed tears.

"Listen to me, Constance. It wasn't your fault."

Constance cursed as a lone tear escaped from its boundary and trickled down her cheek, taking faint traces of her mascara with it. She could feel the blush in her cheeks rising in embarrassment and raised her hand to wipe away all evidence of her crying but Imogen got there first.

Her fingers were gentle as they softly brushed against the porcelain skin, lingering longer than was strictly necessary.

A choked gasp escaped from the witch, a rare wave of emotion caught in her throat. It scared her how well the younger woman seemed to know her. It _really scared her, _yet it made her feel…

…she wasn't sure what the appropriate word was. Until Imogen, no one had taken the time to try to get to know her and, if they had, most had admitted defeat when they hit her defences for the second time.

The gym-mistress had persevered through it all and, now, she was slowly melting the ice around her heart.

Trembling slightly, she took the tanned hand that was still on her face and brought it down to rest on her chest, letting the younger woman feel the steady thump of her heartbeat; showing her that she was not the heartless woman they thought her to be.

To say Imogen was surprised by the action was an understatement. Opening her mouth to say something, she was cut off as Constance placed a long manicured finger over her lips, effectively silencing her.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved, they simply stared into each other's eyes. Green on brown and brown on green; so many emotions conveyed and shared in that one gaze.

Closing the gap between them, Imogen leant forward and placed a small kiss on the burgundy lips, instantly feeling the usual jump of ecstasy in her heart and a low moan echoing in her ears as the formidable deputy not only responded to the kiss but also deepened it.

* * *

There were days where Imogen had to pinch herself for fear that this…whatever 'this' was, was all a dream. With Serge, it had been nice; their kisses had been sweet, but with Constance, however, it was electric; it was magical. The level of passion hidden beneath the cold exterior was both overwhelming and beautiful.

Barely recovered from the nasty business with Sybil and the lamp, her heart had been in her mouth, following her brief phone call with the headmistress. Imogen suspected that the call had been more for Amelia to calm her own nerves more than anything else, but she couldn't help but wonder how much – if anything – the older witch knew about her relations with the deputy headmistress?

As soon as she had put the phone down, she had wept until there were no tears left to shed. She had been unable to focus on her classes, her reports, or anything else remotely relating to the school; all she had wanted was Constance, to hold her in her arms and know that she was safe.

Imogen's own heart physically ached at the knowledge that, a few hours longer, and she would have lost this magnificent and majestic woman for good.

Constance Hardbroom.

The woman she had almost lost and had not yet told her the most important thing.

Those precious three words.

The nature of their relationship, changed forever, in eight simple letters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch**

**A/N: I found some time to do some writing *yay!* Thank you for your reviews ****:)**

* * *

**Three Words, Eight Letters**

**Chapter Two**

"And that's why I love you, Constance."

With a defeated sigh, Imogen Drill tore the page from her notebook, crumpling it into a ball before she tossed it in the wastepaper basket, where it soon joined all her other failed attempts.

_'Stupid, stupid, stupid'. _

Ever since her girlfriend's potentially life threatening accident at Rowan Webb's Riverside Retreat, the gym-mistress had been doing a lot of thinking and she had decided that it was finally time to tell the witch how she really felt about her. The sorceress was everything that she had never known she wanted, and she deserved to know how special she was. Yes, it was time to say those all-important words.

On paper, it had seemed like the perfect plan but in actual fact, the realities were so much harder than the blonde had first thought.

She wanted it to be perfect.

There had been a few perfect moments of late but she had lost her nerve at the last minute and chickened out. Those perfect moments had passed them by, leaving a stilted awkwardness in their wake.

There was another problem facing her as well.

Imogen Drill had never been the first one to say "I love you".

Her previous relationships had all followed the same pattern: the other party would say it first and she would mumble it back awkwardly, thus continuing on in a relationship where she was never really 100% sure how she truly felt. Now, she was the one in prime position. She was the one putting it all on the line and baring her soul; she was the one confessing her innermost feelings...and she was terrified.

What if Constance didn't say it back?

_'No, Imogen don't think like that. She loves you, I'm sure she does'._

Then again…maybe it was safer not to play devil's advocate. The "I love you" had a tendency to complicate things, and she knew that once those words were in the air, one way or another, everything would change.

* * *

_'She's pulling away from me...' _

The words echoed in her head again, voicing her worst fears.

Up until one year ago, Constance Hardbroom would have said that her worst fear was Heckitty Broomhead but now that was not the case. Whilst it was true that she still feared her form tutor, and probably always would, the thing that now terrified her most was losing Imogen Drill.

The formidable potions mistress had never expected to fall as deeply in love as she had - it was something that neither party had expected but, somewhere along the line, it had happened. Somewhere along the line, *they* had happened:

Constance and Imogen.

Imogen and Constance.

A couple.

Just thinking about her girlfriend made the brunette's cheeks flush; it made her palms sweat and her heart flutter in a way that it hadn't in years: she may have been the witch but it was the blonde bombshell that had her under love's spell. Their union hadn't exactly been all hearts and flowers nor was it what could be called 'love at first sight'. There was no looking across the room and catching a stranger's eye. In fact, the first time they had met, it was clear from the off: they would not get along.

They hadn't.

Years upon years of arguments fuelling the fire under the tenuous working relationship between them until one day late last year.

It would come as a surprise to many if they were to find out that the relationship between the two women had been born from what was, essentially, a one night stand, and that rare late night conversation, frayed emotions and far too much wine had led to something that they had never thought possible. Though the brunette pretended to be embarrassed, it secretly gave her a slight thrill to know that was how they had begun. The infamous Constance Hardbroom had a wild and rebellious streak to her, who would have thought it...?

At the time, however, she had been mortified.

Beyond mortified.

Instantly she had turned the blame on the blonde and the alcohol, and as she had gathered up her dress from the floor, the bedcovers wrapped around her, covering her modesty, she had vowed that it would - and could - never happen again.

Of course it did.

Again and again. And again.

By the time they fallen into bed with one another, for what must have been the twelfth time, this time without the aid of a booze induced haze, they could no longer deny that there was something between them, and so had begun a newfound relationship. The seeds were slow to start, her reluctance and demons of the past holding back her ability to move forward, but soon it blossomed, like a beautiful flower opening up for spring under the rays of the blazing sun. Now that bloom was in danger of dying, its petals closing back in on itself as fear and insecurity plagued her.

Imogen had been acting strange for the past few weeks. It was only a matter of time...

She brushed a tear away from her cheek, her eyes straying towards the mirror on the wall, the bruising on her forehead faint as her injury following her latest near death experience was almost healed.

As her foot had braced the kipper, zipping her over backwards with such a speed that she had no chance to stop herself from falling, a sickening crunch sounded as her head collided with the wooden bench on the boat and a shower of stars and exploding lights cascaded past her eyes as she lost consciousness. Just before she had drifted into the unconscious abyss, Imogen's name had echoed on her lips and a lone tear had slipped from her eye as she imagined never seeing the blonde again, leaving her having not told her the most important thing.

Those precious three words.

The nature of their relationship, changed forever, in eight simple letters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch. I also borrowed a line from 'Once Upon A Time' so I don't own that either.  
**

**A/N: Thank you for your kind reviews. I was initially going in a different direction with this after the first chapter, but last month I saw one of those "Imagine your OTP prompts..."on Tumblr so I decided to take some slight inspiration from there instead, thus changing route completely. **

**I have tried to add a bit of fluffiness to proceedings but as I have said to a few people, I find it much easier to write angst and where everything is going to hell, lol. I hope it's okay though. :)**

* * *

**Three Words, Eight Letters**

**Chapter Three**

Having finished supervising that evening's detention - why, pray tell, was it**_ always_ **Mildred Hubble? - , the brunette tidied away her papers before she trekked up the stairs, cursing that her room _just had_ to be located in the furthest point of the castle. Ordinarily, this would not have been an issue for the potions mistress as she would simply have materialised, thus appearing in her quarters within mere seconds, but she had made a promise to the headmistress earlier in the week and she was loathe to break it, having been handed a lifetime of broken promises herself.

She had promised Miss Cackle that she going to limit an unnecessary overuse of magic in an attempt to try to get some proper rest, having not slept properly for weeks now.

More so than usual.

Every night was the same and she knew that tonight would be no different: a recurring nightmare bringing her worst fears to reality.

She always saw the same pair of eyes – those beautiful green eyes – but they weren't sparkling like they usually did nor were they looking at her with warmth and adoration, no, they were darker and devoid of all emotion as they stared her cold. She always felt the same pair of lips as they brushed against her own, leaning in close towards her but stopping short of actually kissing her. Slowly, they turned away from her and whispered in her ear, words of poison; every syllable uttered dripped in pure venom, taking gleeful delight in telling her that they had never held any true feelings for her and had really only been using her until somebody better came along; someone who was worthy.

After all, who wanted damaged goods?

She always heard the same laugh. Whilst it was a laugh that normally that sent waves of passion through her, this one always seemed to send a shiver down her spine and an ice cold fear coursing through her veins. Her breathe caught in her throat as the green eyes faded away only to be replaced by another familiar set of eyes: yellow ones. Heckitty Broomhead cackled away manically as she looked down on the fallen witch with a satisfied sneer.

_"Poor little Constance, what have I always told you?"_

"Love is weakness."

Somewhere, in the present, the words easily slipped off the tongue of the potions mistress as she answered the question of the manifestation of her ex-tutor in her dream.

_'It's just a nightmare. Imogen would never-'._

Firmly shaking her head, she banished the thought to the deepest corner of her mind as she entered her room.

Well, technically, it was more their room.

Over time, Imogen had gradually moved the majority of her belongings into the potions mistress room, and whilst they were perfectly happy cohabiting – most of the time, tensions did arise over the gym-mistress's messiness in a complete contradiction to her own incessant tidiness. Even now, Imogen's stuff was carelessly strewn all over the place – she was everywhere!

When, and it was now looking more and more like a 'when' and not an 'if' they did end it, the brunette truly had no idea how she was going to be able to cope with being in that bedroom…_their bedroom. _

Opening the door, she was instantly confronted with the sight she had been dreading for weeks. Her Imogen was perched on the end of the bed, wearing an expression that even with her years of teaching experience, the witch could not quite detect.

She knew that it couldn't be good though.

* * *

The gym-mistress had thought long and hard about this and this alone as she had considered all the possible ways that she could tell her girlfriend that she was in love with her. She could have said it with hearts and with flowers. She could have said it with poetry and with music. In the end though, she had decided against anything that could be perceived as a smokescreen, knowing that her girlfriend would not be impressed with fancy gestures; she was going to keep it simple and honest.

Three words, eight letters.

"Constance, I-I have to tell you something."

* * *

_ 'This is it…she's about to break my heart'.  
_  
Constance Hardbroom was nothing if not a realist with logic overruling anything and everything she did but right now, in this moment, all she wanted was to shut off that part of her brain. She could not bring herself to have this conversation; she wanted to play pretend for just a little bit longer, even if she was only lying to herself. Either way, it was going to hurt.

"Actually, darling, I'm rather tired and this is my month abstaining from wide awake potion, so I think that it's best if we both get some rest and then we can talk in the morning."

She didn't even wait for the blonde to reply as she used her magic to change into her pyjamas before she got into bed, turning away from the other woman without so much as a goodnight kiss.

Imogen nodded, hoping that she did not look too disappointed. Her poor girlfriend did look absolutely shattered; the dark circles under her eyes visible even with make-up. Getting into her side of the bed, she slowly wrapped her arms around the brunette and pulled her close, breathing in her intoxicating scent.

"Night, Con."

Constance was grateful she had her back to Imogen. It meant that the younger woman was unaware of the tears that were silently streaming down her cheeks. Biting down hard on her lip to stifle the sob that threatened to escape, she wiped underneath her eyes before she responded.

"Goodnight, Imogen."

* * *

_'How could anyone not love her?'_

It was all that the blonde could think as she stared at the back of her sleeping lover's head: the moonlight reflection served only to enhance her beauty and with the porcelain skin and dark hair, gave her an almost ethereal glow.

She could gaze at her forever…

A tiny whimper in the silence suddenly set Imogen on red alert, as she feared her girlfriend was in the throes of a nightmare. Carefully reaching over, so as not to startle her, she started to make gentle circles on her back, knowing it was an action that sometimes helped to soothe the witch back into a somewhat peaceful slumber. As she continued with the circular motions, she found herself gently tracing out the words she so desperately wanted to say before she too drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Not a cloud was present in the sky as the sun shone. The majestic entity spreading across the sky, its rays glimmering brightly as they danced across the vast expanse. The birds chirped a merry tune as they sang their song, celebrating the beginnings of another day, one of renewed hope.

It was, however, none of those things that roused Imogen Drill from her sleep that morning, but rather a warm pair of lips against her own, delivering the most passionate kiss she had had in a while. It was a glorious way in which to be woken and, whilst she was far from complaining, she would be lying if she had said that she was not a little confused: Constance was not usually the one to initiate their kisses.

"Good morning! What was that for?"

The sorceress merely raised an eyebrow.

"Can't a woman give her beautiful girlfriend a kiss without there having to be some reason behind it?"

Imogen laughed, her laugh as melodious as the birds' tune outside, as she pretended to be thinking it over.

"Hmm…I _suppose_ she can. Although, just to check that you are _definitely_ Constance Hardbroom and not some imposter, I think I'll need another kiss."

Constance smirked and rolled her eyes in mock-annoyance.

"As you wish, my dear."

After that kiss and with a few more thrown in for good measure, they finally broke apart.

"What do you want to do today anyway?" the blonde asked her better half, "I was thinking of maybe taking a picnic down to the park and spending the day together. What do you think?"

"I think that sounds perfect," the witch replied, currently in too much ecstasy to worry as she usually did about them being spotted by one of the students.

"Great!"

Snuggling up closer together, the two women lay there, just enjoying the moment and enjoying being with one another.

"Oh, and Imogen?"

"Yes, honey?"

"I love you too."

* * *

_"Imagine person A lightly tracing "I love you" over and over again on person B's back, assuming that person B is asleep. When person A is lying on their back, getting ready to sleep, person B moves closer and wraps their arms around person A, whispering softly, "I love you too." Bonus if that's the first time person A has ever declared their love for person B."_


End file.
